


I Have Longed to Move Away

by shellfishDimes



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-16
Updated: 2011-12-16
Packaged: 2017-10-27 10:21:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,973
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/294684
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shellfishDimes/pseuds/shellfishDimes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He vividly remembers what it was like when he killed the first man after Jim's orders – how the thrill was back, the feeling of being untouchable, having that power back and <i>meaning</i> something, the first time after he'd been discharged from the army. He wouldn't trade it for any other job.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I Have Longed to Move Away

**Author's Note:**

> **Warning** for mild PTSD. Title from Dylan Thomas' poem [of the same name](http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/i-have-longed-to-move-away/). Originally posted [here](http://shellfish-dimes.livejournal.com/15829.html) on LiveJournal.

The man they were supposed to be getting information from is lying on the floor, choking on his own blood because he made the mistake of fucking Moriarty over on a business deal and then trying to place the blame on Jim. The man calls Jim 'low level scum', and it takes all of Seb's strength to pull his friend away from the body, because he won't stop punching it even after life has long left the man. He grabs Jim's upper arms, hoisting him to his feet. Jim staggers backwards, spitting curses at Seb like a wounded, rabid animal wanting to be let go, but Seb turns him around so they're facing each other. He grips Jim's wrists in his hands, his fingers digging hard into the skin.

"Calm down," says Seb, doing his best to meet Jim's eyes, which is difficult because he keeps trying to pull away, twitching his head like he's shaking water out of his ears. Jim's fingers are covered in blood, sticky and still warm blood trickling down his hands and staining the sleeves of his shirt and suit. His pupils are blown, and his chest is rapidly rising and falling, breathing coming in shallow, short gasps of fury and agitation.

"He—" Jim snarls, trying to shake Seb's hands off.

"He's dead now," says Seb, bracing both his feet and standing his ground, back rigid. Jim snaps his shoulders, but he holds him in place, pushing his arms down. "He made a mistake, and he's dead." His speech is level and calm, and as he talks he can feel the tension in Jim slowly abating. "Everything's fine. I'll get rid of the body. We have those suitcases left over from last time, and there's a hacksaw in the boot of my car."

"That's not good enough!" Jim snaps, and Seb is so taken aback that he almost manages to wrench away, ripping his wrists out of Seb's grasp. Seb holds him back in the very last second, grabbing his upper arm and pulling on it almost hard enough to dislocate his shoulder. Jim yowls in pain, crumpling to the floor. Seb follows, sinking to his knees and cursing inwardly for yet another ruined suit, but never relenting his grip on Jim.

"Stop it," he says, grabbing Jim's wrists again when he tries to lash out, and pulling him to the side so he can't see the body lying behind Seb, the face beat to a pulp. "James."

Jim looks at him. His eyes are narrowed with anger, and at such close quarters, Seb can see just what is it that makes people so afraid of Jim. It's always there, lurking behind his eyes, that darkness that makes him and defines him, but this time it's right there, floating on the surface, all the madness and the anger, and Seb feels a chill run down his spine because it might reach out, grab him and drag him down with it.

He's not letting that happen. Jim needs him. He blinks and it's gone. Jim's eyes are back to their usual brown, and Seb can see his breathing starting to calm down.

"He deserved it," says Jim. Seb says nothing. "Let go of me, I'm fine." He doesn't need to ask Jim if he's sure – it's evident in the way he holds himself, and the way his arms are relaxed and sluggish in Seb's grip, that he means it. So Seb lets go, getting to his feet and extending a hand to Jim to help him up. Jim takes his hand and straightens up, brushing his suit down for dust. As he does it, Seb sees that the skin on Jim's knuckles is torn, and there's blood and bits of skin under his fingernails. Seb stops his hands before they go to fix his tie.

"Leave it," he says, gently nudging Jim's fingers away from the knot of the tie. "You'll get blood everywhere." He tightens the knot for him, and as he does it he can feel Jim watching him in that calculating, mathematical way of his. Seb raises his eyebrows at him, and then lets go of the tie, his work done.

"I'll get the hacksaw," he says.

Jim appears to consider him for a moment. "Sometimes I wonder why you do all of this," he muses.

They have known each other just shy of two years now, and Seb has been working for Jim for the better part of thirteen months. He vividly remembers what it was like when he killed the first man after Jim's orders – how the thrill was back, the feeling of being untouchable, having that power back and _meaning_ something, the first time after he'd been discharged from the army. He wouldn't trade it for any other job. It's not even a job any longer – it isn't about the money, although the money is more than Seb could ever get in anything legal. The job satisfaction has largely surpassed all expectations, and Jim's occasional fits were no worse than an average discontented officer on a very bad day. From a job, working for Jim became a lifestyle. And it wouldn't be a stretch to say that from a boss, Jim became a friend. Or as closest as he could get to that with someone like Jim Moriarty.

"Taking care of your safety is part of the job description," he declares brusquely. When Jim turns away, apparently satisfied with the answer, Seb hides a grin.

 

\--

 

They are in Jim's living room, and Seb is sprawled on the settee with one of his legs in Jim's lap. The other is on the floor. Both his shoes are missing, as is Jim's tie. They are also incredibly, blindingly drunk when Jim pops the question, out the other end of drunkenness and at the point of lying down quietly and enjoying the fact that the room is blurred at the edges and softly spinning.

"Would you die for me, Sebastian?" Jim twirls the wine glass in his fingers, looking at the way the light hits the dark red liquid sloshing around in it with half-lidded eyes. Seb's brain is like cotton wool and it takes a moment for the question to reach him.

Seb grins. He knocks back the rest of his wine, removing the last traces of it from his lips with his tongue before saying: "What's this about?"

"Just answer the question." Jim's voice is calm and sleepy, or it may sound like that because Seb feels calm and sleepy himself.

He would take a bullet for Jim. There is no question or doubt about it - he would take a bullet for him, he'd drink poison for him, he would throw himself in front of a train for Jim. It's understood. He doesn't think about it when they work, when Jim is faced with near-death situations on an almost daily basis and Seb flings himself in harm's way to protect him, every time. It's the way it goes. Sebastian Moran can be replaced, Jim Moriarty can't. Therefore, it makes more sense that if someone were to get shot, it would be him. But he doesn't say that. He would insult Jim's intelligence if he said that.

"You know my answer," he says. Jim sips his wine until the glass is empty, and he leans to set it on the coffee table.

"Hmm," he simply says, tapping his fingers absent-mindedly on Seb's shin bone. "Yes, I suppose I do." And he doesn't mention it again. Seb writes it off as just another of Jim's moods, and doesn't remember it by the morning.

 

\--

 

"How would it happen?" Resolutely, Seb keeps his eyes closed. It's half four in the morning, he has been out all night doing a clean-up job, smelling of blood and guts. Now that he has finally had a shower, he is determined to get some sleep. None of Jim's questions are going to stand in the way of that.

"Seb. I know you're awake." Fingers tiptoe up Seb's chest, skate along the line of his lips and flick at the tip of his nose.

"How would what happen?" Jim withdraws his hand as Seb opens his eyes. He turns on his back so Seb can see his profile outlined against the faint light seeping through the half-shut curtains. In the dark, he can't tell if Jim's eyes are open or not.

"You said you'd die for me," says Jim. "How? Would you take a bullet for me? That's so trivial, don't you think? Maybe you'd be tortured to death. They'd be trying to get information about me out of you, but you wouldn't tell them. And I'd get there too late to help you." Jim pauses, appearing to consider something. "Maybe I'd do it on purpose." Seb says nothing.

Jim laughs, and Seb can't tell if it's at himself or at the scenario he thought up. "A real military man," he says. "Faithful until his dying breath. That's what I like about you, Seb - you're so delightfully predictable. I could set my clock to you." Seb knows Jim is trying to wind him up, so he still says nothing. He closes his eyes again, hoping to get back to sleep. Jim loves the sound of his own voice, he doesn't need a dialogue.

"Maybe you'd still be alive, on your last breath," continues Jim, "and I'd help push things along." Seb's entire body tenses up as he feels Jim's fingers close around the curve of his throat, squeezing and tightening his grip by degrees. "What's a little push in the right direction among friends?"

Seb opens his eyes, and Jim is there, a playful smirk on his lips, eyes locked on his, waiting for Seb to fight him off. They both know that he can - he could push him off, knee him in the stomach, crack his skull against the wall, anything - but it's not about that. It never is, with Jim. It's all a test, and Seb understands that. He's been working for Jim, been Jim's friend long enough to understand how he works. If he didn't, it is very, very likely that he would be dead by now.

"I could kill you right now," says Jim, shifting on the bed so he can apply more pressure to Seb's throat. "It would be easier. I'd eliminate the middle man. After all, you're more of a risk than you're worth." Seb can feel himself getting light-headed as the oxygen starts to leave his brain.

"You said you'd die for me, Sebastian," says Jim, leaning in closer and brushing his lips against Seb's, as if to take his breath from him. "Now's your chance." Seb can feel his heart hammering in his throat, hammering against Jim's fingers.

Jim's teeth almost shine in the dark as he grins widely, and relaxes his grip. "But that would defeat the purpose entirely." Before Seb can regain his breath, Jim twists away, turning his back to him, and within minutes his breathing is level and calm, signifying that he's fallen asleep.

Seb doesn't sleep a wink that night. He gets up before dawn and smokes on the balcony as the sky turns from dark to grey, and the smoke fills his lungs and burns his throat; and it's the best cigarette he's ever smoked.

 

\--

 

He comes back from Russia two weeks later than he was supposed to, and only then thanks to some very well-crafted contacts he'd acquired who manage to charter him a private plane out, and arrange for a doctor to patch him up. Seb arrives in London looking only slightly worse for wear, and when Jim demands an explanation for his lateness, as Jim is wont and completely entitled to do, all Seb can say is that Moriarty's business got in the way of long-established operative routes of the Solntsevskaya Bratva, and how they did not take to it at all kindly.

"I have a standing deal with Mikhailov," says Jim, frowning.

"Apparently he failed to circulate the memo to the lower branches of the company," says Seb, sounding not at all bitter.

"Well, that's just unacceptable. I can't have my best man under threat of death every time I need something done in the East." Jim's eyes briefly pass over the plaster on Seb's cheek – some of them wore really heavy gold rings – and then he takes out his Blackberry, standing up. "I am going to make some calls. Help yourself to whatever's in the fridge." He walks out of the living room into the hall, and Seb can soon hear him arguing with someone on the other line in brisk Russian.

There is nothing in the fridge but hummus, carrots and various other produce Seb would normally associate with twatty animal rights activists. He does, however, find a bottle of Chianti. Not bothering with the glass, he settles in front of Jim's TV to watch _Come Dine With Me_. The wine slides down his throat with laughable ease, and the comfort of Jim's settee matches its hefty price. The wine is gone before he manages to notice it. The chattering from the TV has a soporific effect on him, and one of the last things he can discern from the babble before his eyes slip shut is Jim walking into the room, talking calmly into his phone. Seb can't speak Russian, but he'd recognise a death threat in any language.

 _"... firing warning shots. I repeat, do not engage. Stick to firing warning shots. Over."_

 _"This is fucking bullshit," says Seb to the man next to him, making sure he's switched his radio off first. "We have the fucking intelligence, and they have the guns and the bombs. We have guns and bombs, bigger than theirs, so why don't we just go for it? The General is a twat."_

 _The soldier regards him for a couple of seconds. "Permission to speak freely?"_

 _"Spare me the pleasantries. Go on."_

 _"With due respect, sir, that's not how war works."_

 _"Don't you tell me how war fucking works, because y–"_

 _The soldier doesn't get to hear the end of the sentence. It has been rumoured that the enemy had some old Russian sniper rifles, but official intelligence hadn't been able to confirm anything. Now they didn't need written confirmation, because one of the snipers gets the man next to him. They're lying so close that his blood splatters Seb's face._

 _"Contact!" Seb yells into the radio. He rolls away from his position, clutching his gun, and another bullet whizzes past him, scraping the top of his helmet. He crawls until he finds a point he can shoot from safely. He looks through the scope of his L129A1._

 _The blood on his face mingles with his own sweat. He blinks it back from his eyes. He scopes out his target. He squeezes the weapon, the metal faintly warm under his fingers. He fires..._

And he wakes up, covered in sweat and breathing heavily. His heart is beating furiously, and he is unsure where he is. There is movement to his left. He lashes out, grabbing it, attempting to immobilise and neutralise the threat.

"What the hell are you doing! _Seb!_ " He blinks. He's still on Jim's settee. Brendan Sheerin is on the TV, talking about Austrian autobahns, and Jim is there looking slightly alarmed, but mostly angry. "Sebastian," says Jim. "Let me go." Seb looks down, and realises he's holding Jim by the throat. He releases him, standing up briskly.

"What was that about?" asks Jim, smoothing his shirt down. "You started yelling, and then I came to wake you up and you grabbed my throat."

"Sorry," says Seb. "Bad dream." Jim watches him with narrowed eyes.

"You've never had bad dreams before," he says.

"I've never been waterboarded in a cave in the Caucasus by angry Russians before," snaps Seb. "I suppose one thing leads to another. I need a cigarette."

He leaves Jim sitting in the living room, looking affronted, while he goes out to smoke a cigarette. He keeps rubbing his cheek, expecting to find blood on his fingers. He can't even remember the soldier's name.

 

\--

 

Seb doesn't rightly remember how it got to this, but when there's expensive alcohol to be drunk, and especially if that alcohol is his favourite whiskey – a bottle of Auchentoshan which is almost as old as he – it doesn't matter. He thinks they're drinking to celebrate the sealing of one of Jim's business deals. Seb wasn't within earshot of the negotiations and isn't aware of the particulars. He's learned not to ask for information unless Jim offers it. It's a survival instinct: he doesn't want for Jim to decide that he knows too much and poses a security risk.

In between pouring the shots, Jim vaguely hints at Neapolitan smugglers, Parisian museum curators and medieval manuscripts. Seb hasn't seen him in such an obviously good mood for a long while – most times, it takes a dose of illegal substances to make Jim's smile come easily, usually administered by Seb when Jim isn't looking. He's grateful that it's not the case this time around.

"Seb, what's this?"

Preoccupied with his drink, Seb hadn't noticed Jim had wandered off out of his living room ages ago, under the pretence of getting more ice, and hadn't been back for a suspicious amount of time. He sits up on the settee and looks up, seeing Jim framed in the doorway leading to the hallway to Seb's bedroom. He doesn't have the ice, which isn't surprising seeing as how the kitchen is on the opposite side of the flat. What is surprising, however, is what Jim's wearing.

"Why do you even still _have_ this?" says Jim, slurring a bit. It's too big for him – too wide in the shoulders and too broad in the chest. It makes him look like a schoolboy trying on his father's suit. It's still in perfect condition, even though Seb hasn't worn it for what's nearly three years now. The colour is just slightly faded by the sun, but the buttons, the pips and the crown are still as gleaming as ever.

"Take it off," says Seb, a warning note to his voice. Jim runs his fingers against the metal of the buttons and then shoves his hands in the deep pockets, rocking on his heels. He laughs, and the sound is like a punch in the stomach.

"I think it makes me look daunting." Jim grins. He takes his hands out of the pockets and stands to attention, in that way that people who've only ever seen it done in films do.

"Stop fucking around, Jim," says Seb, his fingers gripping the whiskey glass more tightly. He's friends with Jim and there isn't any part of his life that isn't accessible to him whenever he wants it: Jim has practically lived in Seb's flat for certain stretches of time. They've shared a bed often, because they were both too drunk or too tired to care about any other kinds of sleeping arrangements, but this is another thing entirely.

"Why do you still care? It's just a jacket." It is as if Jim has taken the remains of Seb's glorious military career – he'd never admit to himself that it was anything other than that, and he has medals to prove it – and made a complete mockery out of the person he used to be, and everything he stood for. He checks himself. Everything he _stands_ for.

Jim clicks his tongue, running his fingers down the lapels and following their trail with his eyes. "Oh, I know what this is," he says, tilting his head up and flashing a grin at Seb. "You want that power back. The big, tough soldier misses barking orders at dirt-covered privates who are scared of their own shadow." Seb's stomach knots into a red hot ball of anger. He wants, more than anything, to stand up and fly at Jim, punch him in the face to shut him up.

"Do you put it on and pretend you're back in Afghanistan?" Seb balls his hand into a fist to stop it from shaking with how badly he wants to beat Jim into a pulp. He can't; it's exactly what Jim wants, he's just doing it to provoke him, wind him up. _Smash his nose right into his skull and break off a couple of teeth,_ he thinks.

"Or..." Jim pauses. "Maybe it sits in the back of your closet because it reminds you of the army. That can't have been pleasant, being discharged like that?" He's full on smirking now. _Have him choking on his own blood and gurgling for air,_ Seb thinks, but it's not helping.

"What was it that they said?" Jim asks, tapping his chin with a finger. Seb wants to drink the whiskey left over in his glass, but he's afraid that if he moves it, he'd have to break it and wedge the shards of glass deep into Jim's cheeks. "Wait, I think I remember. _Unwarranted cruelty_ , right?" The last time someone dared to call him out on why he was discharged from the army, Seb broke two of the man's ribs and cracked his skull. Jim chuckles, evidently expecting Seb to laugh right back at this wonderful joke Jim appears to be enjoying. Seb doesn't know if he can rip the tongue clean out of Jim's mouth, but he is willing to give it his best shot.

Realisation dawns on Jim's face just before Seb looks away from him, feeling it to be the only course of action which will stop him from trying to tear Jim limb from limb on the spot. "Oh dear," says Jim. "I appear to have hit a nerve." Seb doesn't mistake his tone of voice for remorse for even a second. He does his best to concentrate on the colours of the whiskey in his glass, anything to put his mind off the thoughts of extreme violence.

Jim walks over to the settee, and after a moment's consideration, he sits on Seb's lap, straddling him. Seb looks at his whiskey, intently, concentrating on the colours. He gets to 'brown' before Jim takes hold of his chin and tilts his head so that Seb is facing him. It takes almost zero effort on Jim's part to do it, and Seb isn't sure which one of them he is supposed to hate for that. Jim's fingers are digging into Seb's throat and jawbone before he leans closer and kisses him. Seb doesn't respond: Jim's mouth meets tightly closed lips, so he pulls away.

"Was that the wrong thing to say?" asks Jim, eyes dancing with amusement across Seb's frowning features. He leans in to kiss him again, licking at the seam of Seb's mouth to make him relent. Seb raises his arm as if to strike him, but he grabs the lapel of the jacket Jim's wearing, wrenching his mouth away.

Against his neck, Jim laughs. It's the laugh of someone who has set his house on fire and is now warming his hands on the flames. Jim pushes himself up and he shrugs the jacket off, throwing it on the settee next to Seb.

"None of that matters any more," he says, nodding to the jacket. "You answer to me now." He gives Seb the once-over, noticing the glass of whiskey in his hand. "Ice," he says, turning away and disappearing into the kitchen.

Seb throws his head back on the settee and breathes deeply through his mouth. He keeps his eyes closed, trying to stop the whooshing sound of blood in his ears. After a couple of moments, he takes the jacket, folds it neatly, and puts it into the very back of his closet.

After a few months, he forgets it's there.


End file.
